


The Five People Who Count

by skywaterblue



Category: West Wing
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Subtext, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-09
Updated: 2010-08-09
Packaged: 2017-10-11 00:39:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywaterblue/pseuds/skywaterblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five moments between "Disaster Relief" and "Separation of Powers". A day in the brand-new life of Josh Lyman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Five People Who Count

_"I... I can count on one hand the people I trust right now."_  
\-- Josh Lyman, "Disaster Relief".

 

i. Donna Moss

He's sitting in Donna's car, the one he still thinks of as new, at midnight outside a twenty four hour drugstore in suburban Washington DC. Donna is treating this as a spy mission, with her hair tied back and the drabbest outfit he's ever seen her wear. (And this includes the times on the campaign, when she had very little in the first place.) As they drove, she told him that she had considered wearing a scarf and black sunglasses, and they laughed together. The absurdity of the situation is growing to be a bit out of hand.

He took her because of all the people he knows in the universe, he trusts her the most. Also, she hasn't had her picture in the paper since Rosslyn, so he's hoping no one connects the 'Josh Lyman' on his prescription to his beautiful long-legged assistant. Just in case, she parked in the darkest corner of the lot, and put her cardboard windshield thing up, the one with the faded picture of a tropical beach at sunset. He honestly has never seen the purpose of it, and adds the absurdity of that to the growing list of ways his life is a cosmic joke.

So now he sits in the dark, parking lot light flicking orange light sporadically across the pavement. Alone with his thoughts; too often alone with his thoughts these last three days. He chooses to blank out, and concentrates on the way the sodium light reflects on the sickly looking pumpkins the store has outside.

He hears her before he sees her; the store has little jingle bells on the door and they rattle as she opens it. Her heels click against the pavement, all sounds muffled by the thick piece of glass his forehead rests against. He decides to look a little more alive, and straightens up in the seat, as she opens her door. His forehead has left a little oil smudge on the glass. He does not look at her legs as she slides into her seat.

The first thing she does is hand over the little white sack, which he takes, while actively ignoring the warmth of her hand. Amy's discount physical contact has spoiled him. How, in three days, has he gone back to starving for someone to reach out?

"Anafranil," Donna says as she starts up the car. "That's a new one."

"Yeah." He opens the bag and peers inside. Three bottles, same as always. "It works pretty well." Donna takes yeah as an answer, but he knows she always wants more. He remembers how Leo used to ask him, day in and out, if he was okay. Josh can't remember when he stopped asking. Another thing gone.

"That's good to hear." She says it like she means it. He believes her, because she's never once, in her entire life, screwed him over because it was the means to an end.

Donna drives on through the night, and soon they arrive at his house. She parks outside, in the spot left where his car should be, except, he hasn't got one. He clutches the little bag in his hand, where it rubs against the scar on his palm in the crisp autumn air. Reminders, reminders. Her hair is a halo of gold in the light from his porch.

A thousand thoughts run through his head, most of them centered on how glad he'll be to be home. It's an empty and unattractive place, and not much of an escape from bad thoughts -- he's polluted it that way. But it is quiet, and not filled with people who won't meet his eyes when he's speaking to them.

He doesn't want to be alone tonight. He doesn't want to be alone, ever.

Come inside with me, he wants to ask her. Stay tonight. She would, if he asked. But she'd do it out of pity, or concern, and none of the reasons he'd want. He wants her to be his comfort in the darkness, but she only goes so far. They tread this line, you see, and woe be upon them who approach it.

She's a whole different edge, for once, and he wants to leap. He wants to jump with abandon, and the devil may care where he lands.

Instead, he opens his mouth and says, "Let's go get waffles tomorrow. At that place around the corner?" Donna smiles a hundred-wattage grin at him, and nods. She sets a time, so he won't be late for the work that he suddenly doesn't have, and then he slams the door closed. He stays as her car turns down the street, and then he makes his way into his silent, empty place.

Inside his brain, the gears continue to grind on. Very soon, the fear of hurting someone is going to be worn down by this desperate ache in his heart.

Josh Lyman has never been known for his patience.

 

ii. Toby Ziegler

When he's done with this, Toby's couch is going to have his permanent ass imprint. He slinks in Toby's office during one of the many emergency Josh-fucked-up meetings, and lays down to burn off the breakfast he ate, while watching television. Toby's blinds are drawn, but light slips through them and obscures the faces. It's a good thing; he doesn't like reflections, and seeing his own picture on television is like a fun house mirror.

"For God's sake, Josh, could you maybe get your own couch?" Toby mutters darkly as he enters, before slamming a large folder on his desk. He can see the coffee ring he left on it last week, and then goes back to watching the news.

"There's no room. Besides, I like this one."

Toby gives one of his little huffs, and while Josh isn't fluent in Zieglarese, Sam taught him the basics. This is the exasperated yet not angry one. "Could you at least, you know, pretend that you have work to do?"

It stings Josh that he can't think of a single thing he wants to do, and he doesn't have anything he doesn't want to do either. Instead of answering, he flips the channel. MSNBC is terrible when he could be watching the victory dancing on Fox. He imagines a hundred Republicans in back rooms saying things like, 'Thank goodness he didn't die, that once. We never would have had this windfall without him'. Toby sits down and starts going through the folder, occasionally sighing.

"Stop." Toby says a few minutes later. He can feel his sharp gaze, snapping to full attention on him.

"What?" He's confused, and digs himself out of his morbid 24 hour news haze.

"Stop this. Stop watching television. You can... brood, you can brood all you want, but not in my office, and not on my couch, and not while I'm watching."

He sits up on the couch. "What should I do instead?" He asks, and it's sharp and bitter and doesn't sound like him.

Toby just looks up, and keeps eye contact. Josh finds that unnerving, and always has. He looks away and Toby rubs his mustache; even over the noise of the televisions, Josh can hear the bristly sound. "Figure something out." His voice is not the angry-Toby, but the quiet, depressed Toby that surfaces only when he's truly concerned. "Use that..." He hesitates, " ...the world class political mind, and use it to find a way out of this mess."

Josh hears desperation in his voice, and it raises the hair on his neck.

"I... I don't know if I can." He closes his mouth and swallows.

"You have to. God knows, I've tried." Toby rubs his forehead and looks down at the folder. "We're fifty miles out to sea and with not a compass to guide us." He paused, and says, "Someone has to find the way back."

The enormity of the task rests on his shoulders, and he wants to hand it back. He wants to tell Toby about how he can't find his way to sane in a paper bag these days, and about how he's too chicken shit to kiss Donna, let alone repeatedly ask her to marry him and fail. He's Josh Lyman, and except for Bartlet, his entire life he's settled for second best.

But he's also Josh Lyman, who got this man elected (twice) against all odds, and if he can't rescue them this time.... That's the ballgame. He finds a little ember inside and hopes it doesn't blow out. He's still committed, and it gives him strength.

He looks Toby in the eye. "I'll come up with something." Toby nods curtly, once, and doesn't look up as Josh lets himself out.

iii. CJ Cregg

By lunch, his purpose has burnt to an ember after Leo's latest rebuff. Angela fucking Blake brushed past him in the halls and he had to be courteous, because he's sure if he isn't, he'll be out on the streets tomorrow. So he's turned back to Donna's What A Shame folder, and concentrates on how much there is left to do. He's decided he could certainly save the Pacific Northwest Rainforest in his free time, or maybe he'll try cleaning the waterways...

CJ enters his office and gives a little smile. "Donna let you order Philly Cheesesteak? Bad boy." Her flirtation is shaky around the edges with him, which means he's in some sort of trouble, although it's hard to tell if it's some new form or just the old stuff. And then she shuts the door, but he already knew she would.

"Yeah, well, I had to go get it myself. In her exact words, she 'won't be party to helping me implode my arteries.' " His voice goes higher and he gives her a wobbly smile back. His office really does smell like the sandwich he just finished. Fine, at least it wore away the remaining scent of fish.

"I'm not sure implode is the right word she was looking for. Implosions occur when buildings... or anything, I suppose, collapse inwards. Whereas arteries clog, like so much bad piping." CJ's hands clutch her leather folder, before she takes a seat.

Josh gives her a little twisty frown. It's bad enough he has to view the little chart in his doctor's office twice a year. "Thanks for that, CJ. You're quite the poet."

"No problem, mi compadre." She offers back, and he looks down at his own folder, before closing it.

"CJ, there's a reason you're here, right? It's not a visitation, or anything? Because I'm fine, and I don't... you know, whatever. Whatever you think... " He imagines Stanley giving him a gold sticker star for the effort to address what is likely a legitimate concern for the Press Secretary. Given that he completely flipped out two days ago, and yelled at an inanimate building.

"No, Josh, it's not." She takes on that hard business voice now, and opens her folder, just briefly, before closing it again. "Josh... this... Katie in the press room, she has a source claiming that you take antidepressants." Well, fuck. CJ looks at him, honestly, and waits.

"The White House doesn't comment about the personal lives of its staff... " He reminds her, suddenly sharp. It only takes him a second. "You know that! What did you say?" He stops, and struggles to get himself under control. They can't have that knowledge, he doesn't want them to. His one hope in life, is that maybe they don't notice he's practically unfit for the job. If they don't notice this, maybe they won't notice other things...

"That's what I said." CJ is defensive now, he's made her defensive. "Do you really think I'd slip up? I don't know anything anyhow. You and Donna keep your secrets very well."

"Well. Okay." He looks away and then looks back, and notices that somehow, he stood up. He sits down again. "Is it going to be a thing?" He doesn't tremble, not the least as he asks. If it's a thing, he's done for, and they knows it. He can't do this and be the DNC whipping boy; Leo's generosity only goes so far and he's rapidly learning the limits. He can't tell what CJ thinks; she's got her stony press briefing face on, and he can't break it.

"No. I managed to put the fear of God into Katie. I think her source was your pharmacist, so it was illegal anyhow. It'll probably make its way into the 'permanent rumors file' of a dozen senators... " CJ is musing now, and looking into space. He wonders what she sees.

"And about half of Congress." He manages to shrug it off. He's gotten over the occasional instances where he's walked into an office blaring some form of music, as if this would make him fall apart on their floor and grant them an easy victory. He feels faintly relieved. CJ is quiet now, and continuing to look into space.

"Before I came to Washington, I believed in the idea of the false rumor." She lets it hang there. "In Hollywood, people spread rumors for thousands of reasons, and you could never quite be sure if, deep down, they had some fundamental truth."

"Some of them are false," Josh says. Only by a matter of degree, however, he knows. He knows the one about Toby and CJ is true, but not to what degree. He knows that Sam had a new man in his bed every other night during the MS scandal and wasn't careful. And he knows for a fact that while he may not be having sex with Donnatella Moss six ways from Sunday on his desk, he'd certainly be up for it.

CJ stands up and opens his door. She looks back once, sadly. "But only to a degree." And then she heads off, back to her real work. And he reopens his folder, back to his make work.

iv. Charlie Young

Six rolls around, and he can no longer pretend he's working furiously on nothing. So he calls it a day at exactly the right time for the first time in years, and sends Donna home. She gives him a look, and asks if he wants to catch a movie with her or something. His heart leaps, but CJ's leak has made him dangerously aware of the thousand eyes watching him and his life, so he declines.

Instead, he meets Charlie in a bar for drinks at seven thirty, the only person from the West Wing working fewer hours than he, lately. Josh has a lager while waiting, and it's actually eight before the President's bodyman slinks into the chair next to him.

"I haven't seen you in the past few days, so I though, you know, we could catch up?" It sounds patently lame, even to Josh. Josh has only rarely spent time with Charlie, outside of the office and without the others.

"Well, yeah." Charlie's a good guy, and he keeps his voice even. No pity for Joshua Lyman there, and it's such a good thing. "I'm glad you asked me. I could use a beer." He says it to Josh, but the bartender gets him his usual as he speaks. Charlie lays his driver's license on the bar, just in case, and Josh tries not to wonder when the last time he was carded was.

He wishes Sam were here instead, but Charlie's not a bad second choice. At least he isn't Toby, all morose while downing a thousand shots of scotch because of a thousand failed expectations. But it's Charlie, which is none of those things. It's a bit awkward, but they have drinks, and the more they do, the more they loosen up. By the second drink, Josh breaks the silence.

"So, how's Zoey?" Cheery. For a depressant, alcohol sure makes him forget his actual sorrows. It makes him want to hear about someone else, hopefully getting better.

"You know, I think she's doing much better. Last time I called, she had worked her way up to the Dave Matthews Band." Charlie smiles and takes another pull on his beverage of choice. This is the latest story in Charlie and Zoey's cold band war, and Josh is glad to hear it.

Josh looks away from the bar television, where they've started another round of fillet Josh Lyman on Capitol Beat. "Hey, they're male, and they have instruments. That's fantastic."

Charlie blinks, and says, "I have to admit, I'm a little impressed you know who the Dave Matthews Band is."

"They played for Rock the Vote, during the first campaign. Besides, I'm music fan, a fan of the music." He's actually relieved it's someone he knows, so he can stretch this out. The last six or seven albums he had to borrow from Donna, just to keep up.

"Of the Dave Matthews Band?" Charlie shrugs. Perhaps his opinion isn't too high of Dave Matthew's, and Josh realizes he has no idea what music Charlie likes. Rap? It's possible. "I didn't know they played Rock the Vote, though. That's cool." Josh decides he's probably a jazz guy, Charlie. All smoky voiced women, and the wail of the sax and trombone. He waits for another pull on their drinks, and the commercial break before asking.

"You know, I just realized, I have no idea what sort of music you listen to." If it's jazz, perhaps Charlie will sit and talk about it, and he can remember a little. Jazz and classical music are the only two genres he can't face safely, consistently, or at least were before this latest round of medicinal fun.

"A little of everything, I guess. Mostly I'm a whatever everyone else is listening to type of guy." Charlie says. "They're really kicking your ass," and he nods to the television, where Capitol Beat has entered its second half.

"You have no idea," He springs, thinking of CJ again.

"Yeah, not really." Charlie shrugs, and looks at his watch, "Listen, I gotta go. Deanna called, she wants to have dinner tonight, but I figured... "

There's a sick lurch in Josh's heart, "Go, go! Your sister is more important than sitting here and having pity beer with me."

"You're sure?" Charlie looks at him. He's already standing, and would probably have his coat on by now if he wasn't stopping to check.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Have a great time."

Charlie smiles, shrugs on his coat, and presses a couple of crumpled dollars to the counter for his beer. "Thanks Josh. Hey, don't stay here all night, ok? Donna'd kill me if she found out I left you here."

"I'll be fine," Josh says again, and then Charlie nods and is gone. Josh turns back to the bar, and drains the rest of his beer.

v. Sam Seaborn

His fingers are very clumsy right now from the drink, so it's a good thing Sam's on speed dial. Josh takes another look at the time on his cell, before slumping down on the couch. 3 am Eastern is 6am Pacific, and so Sam should be awake for sure, he's never late for that sort of thing.

He picks up on the second ring, and his muffled voice says, "Josh?"

"Hey, rise and shine, Sam." Josh wonders what the sunrise looks like from Sam's beachfront. At six, it should be rising above the waves, yeah? He sees the sunrise here all the time, and it's supposed to make you happy and cheerful, but it doesn't seem to work for him. It's broken, the sunrise thing.

"Hah hah, Josh." Pause and there's some sort of shuffle in the background. Little clicks, the sound of Sam's glasses being unfolded. "You're drunk."

"How do you know? I've only said..." Now he pauses to count, "Four words, not counting this sentence..."

"'Hey, rise and shine, Sam' is actually five words. Plus, it's midnight here, and you only call this late when you're drunk." Another click in the background. Perhaps it's a light? Suddenly, like a flash of, you know, the thing that happens when you have an idea, and he realizes he's not seen Sam's bedroom. Sam's new bedroom, that is. Or any of the other rooms that connect to it. He means, he's seen pictures of the outside, and maybe of the inside, but he hasn't been there. To test it out.

What was he talking about before? Oh, not being happy.

"You know, antidepressants don't really make you not sad. I mean, I always thought they would, but they don't. Not really."

"Are you supposed to be mixing whatever you've taken with that much booze? Also, related question, you haven't taken too much of whatever you're taking, have you?" Josh reclines against his couch, and listens carefully to the background behind Sam's voice. If he's careful, perhaps he can hear the sea...

"Um?" Josh asks. He's forgotten the question, but there's the sea and the sunrise. "Is the sun rising there? What does it look like? You know, you didn't show me your house, when I was there."

"Josh." Sam's voice is sharp now. "How much have you had?"

"Four? Maybe five." There were two with Charlie, he thinks, and maybe... nah, best to just give up. He doesn't remember and it doesn't matter.

"Of the pills?" What the fuck is Sam yapping about and why is he doing it so harshly? He waits a moment as it floats to the top. Oh, right. He's worried, about replacement windows and other things. He never meant that, and he wishes everyone believed him.

"No, of the beer." Josh sits up, slowly, and as he does so he feels a little more awake, a little less drunk. "I didn't... It's not like that. I'm just drunk, though. Really... drunk."

Josh listens intently, to see if Sam believes him. It's important that he does. Sam breathes out, and Josh imagines him looking up, because it's just his voice and it makes it easier. "Things have been rough." Sam makes it sound so easy. He always has, that was his job...

"Yeah." Josh knows better than to ask him to come back; it didn't work the first time, and he was sober for most of those. Too bad; having Sam back might kill lots of birds, like Toby's quiet fury, or CJ's empty voice. But probably, instead, Sam would get burnt up again, and run off, and Josh doesn't think Sam's a second chances sort of guy anyhow. Not, at least, when it doesn't have him in the package.

"It'll get better, eventually. They'll forget about this one, they always do. Remember your secret plan to fight inflation? Still, I wish you wouldn't call when you're drunk. I like you sober too, you know." Sam says. Sam says. Sam says. "In fact, I usually like you a lot more when you're sober." Josh listens to him quietly, and feels the mercy of a drunken night's sleep latching on. "Josh?"

"Yeah. Listen, night Sam." Mercifully, he presses 'talk' and lets the phone fall to the carpet before rolling over on his couch.

____

His alarm clock blares at 6 am. From his open window, he can see the sun rising over the skyline, golden rays cutting through the blanket of smog in oranges and reds. Josh Lyman watches for just a moment, before stumbling for the shower.

**Author's Note:**

> [Livejournal Archived Comments](http://community.livejournal.com/inthetallgrass/46229.html)


End file.
